Storm Filled Skies
by Late to the Party
Summary: From out of the. Love, betrayal, woe, and history; friends, allies and foes, but who is telling the truth, and who is lying? Even to oneself. - Skie Narration. AU.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the names, characters (except Charname, such as he is), setting contained within. Bioware/Black Isle/Interplay does.**

* * *

Prologue

She watched longingly.

No, that wasn't right. Mentally, she scribbled over the word, 'curiously'; that was better. She watched curiously.

Sometimes self-narrating grew dull, but it gave her something to do. While she watched, pretending to pay attention while she searched the crowd, she would find things to amuse herself with. This latest entertainment came in the form of reciting stories of those around her, and having her bard sing them back to her – or so she liked to pretend. He never did, but she could imagine his voice singing to her. Curiously, she looked again, from the corner of her eye. What made this one so different?

He didn't fit in. She saw that immediately. Everyone else did, but he didn't. Something about him, the sharp awareness in his eyes… he was actually _listening_, and making mental notes. Oh, how exciting! Someone else who actually _liked_ history? And wasn't interested in polite chitchat? Had he snuck in? He had, hadn't he?

She determined to follow him as soon as the meeting closed, her bard forgotten.

—

"In honour of the Grand Duke," the speaker began, unveiling a plaque. A polite round of applause echoed through the auditorium. Tonight's colours were drab, colourful but plain, variation upon variation of darker and pastel shades, in mimicry of an earlier age. The latest fashion. To compensate the perfume wafted, clashing in what, no natural flower meadow or forest, could ever bring together. Spices made her sneeze. Stupid Amnish bringing their fashions here; _why_ did they have to adopt it? The sea kelps were so much nicer on the nose…

Three hours and all she wanted was to be back at home, and that in itself was bad. Home was so _boring_. Here was worse. She smiled politely as an older gentleman, some noble or other, caught her eye, and tried to keep her attention from wandering.

She noticed the young man again; his hair seemed out of place. For one, it wasn't washed in a thousand dyes, and for two, it seemed ill-kempt, as if he had only dragged a comb through it a half dozen times, instead of the two hundred strokes she endured. But then, his fell to his shoulders, a pretty shade of coal, whereas hers was curled. That was another thing; he only just fit in with the fashion, but didn't seem to be making a statement. A dull green robe, with only the merest hint of embroidery. She scoured her mind, but she couldn't remember seeing him before.

"And our ancestors of the sea–"

Why couldn't he put some _life_ into his words? Monotone… how could _anyone_ be expected to listen to this? She loved history, but not this sort of… oh, that was just typical. _Cythandria_ got to sneak off with whoever she was with; the other girl's name escaped her; probably hiding out in the privy 'powdering their noses', and everyone smiled endearingly, but not her? Well, she _was_ a duke's daughter…

Her thoughts wandered. Tonight, she would visit her bard, and hide out on the tavern's rooftop, in the sheltered cranny she made her own. She longed to hear his sweet words as he sang to those ungrateful louts who could never appreciate the beauty and majesty of his song… she suppressed a wistful sigh. How her bard brought history to life, tales and sagas of the gallant and the villainous, where the smart ones won over chivalric virtues. He spoke of _real_ life, not the courtly prose of the fawning poets that sought to win her hand and her father's favour…

She tried to withhold a sniff; the older gentleman two seats down stank of sandalwood and wine, and his lady, obviously not his wife, stank of rosewater and cinnamon. The couple above them, also not married, stank of ambergris, musk, aniseed and rum. How daring. Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. Last year had seen powdered rubies and rose quartz; this year, hairnets were out and tiaras were in. Not that she _minded_ tiaras, per se, but they sparkled just a little too much and no one took her seriously when she donned one. Not that anyone did anyway, but that was hardly the point.

Her gaze strayed and she tried not to frown. Surely he hadn't been sitting here three hours; she would have seen him when he first entered. Had he snuck in?

"We commit this, a new dawn, to the likeness…"

He had pretty eyes, she decided, a nice, pleasant brown, sort of like loam. (She didn't actually know the precise shade of loam, but she imagined that his were close to it. Sort of like willow-tree bark crossed with tigers eye. It didn't matter.). Then she noticed what was missing. Even her bard, with his beautiful dark hair, oiled his ebony locks, and trimmed his silly little beard, but this one, whose age she placed between eighteen and twenty-six, didn't. Her bard's goatee was endearing, even if he would look better without it, but this one seemed clean-shaven, but only recently. She found his inability to fidget both admirable and frustrating. How could anyone put up with this?

"Thus, the Undercity remains…"

She had had enough of this. A polite excuse, a headache perhaps… if only corsets were in, she could claim to faint, but sadly, those went out three years ago. Maybe next time, she'd dig one out, add some embroidery and lose the lace, and try to start a new fashion. Fainting was most convenient at times, even if she couldn't breathe properly. Of course, three years ago it was less of a squeeze than it would be now. That would be a bother. Still, garnet _did_ become her, and she'd been longing to wear her brown and red, and bronze band again… maybe if she used gold and green?

A faint scowl touched her features. Gold and green were Cythandria's colours of choice. No, that wouldn't do at all. People might think she was _imitating_ her. As if she would ever do such a thing; fawning up to Sarevok and then feigning disinterest, driving men wild with envy, just with a slight glimpse of… Where had he gone?

—

"My dear Skie," Cythandria appeared, with her signature smile, her green eyes not quite condescending, "you do look pale." She fluttered her fan between a not-quite-murmur, "It's so dreadfully hot in here. Shall we get some air?"

Before she could object or thank her, she found herself presented with an arm. Fan white, and skirts cream, Cythandria, as ever, looked radiant, her hair a mane of artful curls. She didn't even use dyes; she was naturally flaxen, her complexion porcelain, perfect without blemish. Kohl she used to great effect, but only because she dabbed it, rather than smothered it. It was so unfair.

"Oh, look at that," Cythandria fussed, her warmth belying the coolness behind her words. Mouth drawn into a disapproving line, she pursed rosebud lips, stained crimson-cherry, and fished out a silken handkerchief and delicately wiped the younger girl's brow, "you're wilting." She observed clinically, then swept her skirts behind her as she half guided, half pulled her from the chamber.

Skie had no reason to object, but offered apologetic smiles to those who turned in her direction. Cythandria wore a similar smile, but hers was tempered with determination and slight dissatisfaction, concern and authority. There would be words about the conditions in the hall…

Absently, Skie wondered about the gnomish fans that had been installed; ventilation systems were meant to breathe into the stuffiest of chambers…

—

Once outside, Skie found herself the subject of another lecture. The night air was cool and fresh, the heavy scent of fish carried from the docks, with other, less desirable aromas.

"And you really mustn't wrap up so tightly; you need to breathe." Cythandria tugged on her laces as she spoke, loosening her dress. A slow flush crept up her cheeks, and she lost her voice. Cythandria, by contrast, continued chiding, "Modesty is becoming, but really, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You'll never win a man with a maiden's approach; you're not a monk. There, now isn't that better? You can actually feel the air on your skin."

"B-but–"

"And you really mustn't frequent taverns, you know. Don't look so surprised; you're not so discreet that I haven't noticed. It's not common knowledge, but it will be if you continue. If you're bored, you must visit me; the Iron Throne is not the most interesting of places, but I always find means to keep myself entertained. Now don't argue, dear. Really, now, there are better ways of amusing yourself."

She didn't answer, but set her jaw stubbornly.

"If you really want to be entertained…" Cythandria leaned in close, "Perhaps I can show you somewhere… with prettier men."

Her eyes widened.

Cythandria leaned back with a knowing smile, "That is, unless you'd rather hang around taverns like a fawning shepherdess?"

"I – I'm not a–"

The flaxen haired woman laughed low, musically, "Of course you're not. Shall I walk you home now? My carriage is near by."

"I'm not going home."

"Of course you are," The other soothed, patting her hand with her white gloved own. Then she lowered her tone, "I know you saw him, and I'm not letting you chase after him."

"You can't – you know him?" Eyes alight, she stared up as the same mysterious, knowing smile returned.

"I can take you to him, if that's what you want."

"R-really?" Then suspicion replaced dry-mouthed awe, "Why would you do that?" She blurted.

"I want us to be friends," Cythandria said simply, taking both her hands. Her green gaze sharp and reflective, she confided, "Sarevok and I will be married soon; that will make us sisters, of a sort. Sisters should be friends, shouldn't they?"

"Sisters?"

"Of course. Now he's Grand Duke – he will be, you know – and you being Entar's daughter, well, we need to stay together. The others, fawning lackeys, they're not like us. They hang around their father's skirts, chasing after husbands, but you're not like that."

"But you–"

The laugh stopped her short.

"Oh, my dear, you think? You're – that's so sweet, but no."

"You mean…"

"Of course not. It's all for show, something you should learn," Her forefinger lifted the girl's chin, and dragged along her cheek thoughtfully, "I can teach you, if you want. It's all a game, you see."

"I know the game," came the stubborn reply.

"Not this one."

"What do you mean?"

Cythandria smiled without warmth.

—

Later, as Skie sat on her bed, she reflected on their conversation. How had Cythandria known about her nightly excursions? And who would have thought there was a secret passage from the Iron Throne's cellar to the Undercellar? It was all so exciting!

She sniffed, remembering the stench of Black Lotus, and wrinkled her nose; Cythandria had not even offered her a taste of _that_, but steered her far away from it. The peddlers there knew better than to say a word, taking one look at her and retreating. Clad in silks or not, they were still filth, Cythandria had told her, preying on others' misery for profit. Skie didn't like to mention the city was founded on trade, mostly because she more or less agreed. She had heard whispers of what it did to a person's mind…

Cythandria led her by those who sold their bodies for coin, whether their tongues sang pretty words, or their hands massaged others, or less savoury activities, and into what appeared to be a private audience. It was actually quite pleasant, in modest tastes, a woman's touch, unlike the rest of the Undercellar, which was a clash of dank cobblestone and brightly coloured tapestries, curtains and drapes. And, most of all, it wasn't a cloud of sweat, perfume, Black Lotus and other smells she couldn't identify.

It was strange, because she was _sure_ she recognised some of the patrons, even if they had all worn carnival masks; most of them lacked clothing and she had seen both men and women. It was all so new, and so… base. Debauch only began to cover it! But Cythandria's room was spacious, and while the same platters of fruit and sweetmeats, pitchers of wine and bottles of spirits, occupied low legged tables, it somehow seemed a cut above the rest. The divans were clean, for one thing, and the drapes weren't garish.

Instead of the nude male slaves she envisioned, Cythandria kept a lyrist, a girl who sang so delightfully that she thought she had died and found herself in Mount Celestia. Then they had spoken about girly things, court life, and made polite conversation. Between this, Cythandria confided in her, speaking of gossip, scandals, and how to behave, all while explaining how she could make herself look pretty. It was nice enough, if a little boring, until the flaxen haired young woman told her of… other things. Things that made her eyes go wide, in ways she had never before dreamed of.

Strangely, Cythandria hadn't mentioned the odd young man…


	2. I

I

She was bored. Nowhere near as restless as before, but fidgety enough that she wanted to get up and _go_ somewhere. It wasn't even raining outside, but the gardens had long since ceased to interest her. It wasn't even that she could put her finger on _why_ she was so restless. Her lessons were as frustrating as ever, and she was so sick of the stick tapping her to correct her posture that she couldn't be doing with ballet today, or any other afternoon; Daddy had found out about her fencing lessons and forbidden it, as he did with _anything_ interesting. It wasn't even that she _enjoyed_ fencing; it was just something _different_.

She wanted to go riding, but the city was locked down, and unlike _some_ cities, hers lacked a private forest for its nobles, which made sense given that Cloakwood forest was just over the river, but she couldn't get there, and even if she could (if she really wanted to, she might), it was meant to be full of giant spiders and wyverns and other nasties that had no business being so close to a city. Men liked to hunt though, and Sarevok was off with the other nobles hunting, so perhaps Cythandria would send her an invitation to come and visit? She was a little disappointed she hadn't heard anything back from her, not that she would ever admit it, and since she didn't really want Cythandria over _here_, she hadn't extended an invitation of her own. Besides, Cythandria would only politely decline, or if she came for tea, they couldn't speak openly, so it was a waste of everyone's time.

What she really wanted to do was go and listen to her bard sing, but he didn't seem to sleep at night, which made it a tad inconvenient. She thought about the history lecture last night, and again wondered on the strange young man. She would have to find him, she decided, and searched for paper and ink. She would extend Cythandria an invitation, in the hopes of going to dinner with her now the menfolk were out. Yes, that's what she would do; if Cythandria really _did_ know where the young man was hiding, it would be an adventure to find him. She loved a good mystery.

—

She was surprised Cythandria came; more surprised that she had declined, only to add that dinner would be nicer, and she would drop 'round for tea first. She didn't like to admit she was disappointed when she saw the first few words, envious of how elegant Cythandria's hand was, and privately flattered by such sweeping curls and how confidently they were drawn. It arrived swiftly, and the boy who delivered it seemed nice, not that she had spoken to him, just watched him out the window, much to her tutor's displeasure. Embroidery didn't interest her in the slightest; it was such a waste of time. A gnome had recently invented a 'sewing' contraption, which amazingly enough, seemed to work. It was modelled after spinning wheels, so there was no reason for it _not_ to work… the Hall of Wonders lived up to its name, sometimes. Cythandria had invited her to stroll through the exhibits with her, and they had, arm in arm, under a parasol, while guards in the Iron Throne's livery kept watch by the carriage. It was silly really, but it was for the sake of appearance.

Politely, Cythandria inquired about her brother, and about Daddy, who was off at Candlekeep for some meeting or other, while Eddard was off chasing bandits in the forest with the Flaming Fist… finally, she had the chance to ask her about the mysterious young man, and to her surprise, Cythandria became very serious and told her he was a brigand! How exciting! And romantic! It hadn't pleased her that Cythandria had informed her that she wouldn't be taking her to see him after all, but confided that he had tried to break into the Iron Throne and her chambers.

She was so very, very jealous. It wasn't fair.

…Until Cythandria offered to let her stay over, just as if they were both girls again. She hadn't known Cythandria when they were little, but it sounded like a lot of fun, and maybe he would come back…

—

It was unfortunate that she stubbed her toe on the sweeping marble staircase; more unfortunate that the shellfish made her feel sick, and spent a good hour vomiting it into a bucket, and _that_ started, leaving her emotional… which in turn resulted in being slapped quite smartly across the mouth, and Cythandria being both patient and put out with her, and dissolving into a flood of tears and sobbing into the other woman's arms. She _had_ deserved the slap, and the wine _had_ made her dizzy, giddy and a touch hysterical, if she was honest. Cythandria hadn't threatened to send her home, but wiped her face and was really very understanding. She hadn't though her capable, but once again, Cythandria proved she was far more capable than she had given her credit for. She felt better once she'd lain down for a while, and when she woke and sheepishly began to apologise, the woman had waved her down. It was only midnight, but Cythandria never seemed to tire. Instead, she took her chin (something she was becoming _far_ too familiar with), examined her, then gave her some water to sip. It left her feeling horribly inadequate and ashamed, especially when Cythandria brushed it aside and told her to 'think nothing of it'. Then they had spoken about girly things again, this time in more detail.

He hadn't shown up that night, something for which she was grateful for. She was in such a state, her hair was mused and she might even have chipped a nail. But Cythandria was so nice… she even apologised for letting her drink so much, and promised not to in future. Which didn't seem very fun, but it was less fun being sick…

The next day, she caught a glimpse of her mystery man when Cythandria took her out shopping to make up for it. She was about to go towards him when a carriage got in the way, and they had to rush back to the Iron Throne. Scar, commander of the Flaming Fist, had been murdered. How horrible! And what was worse was _he_, her coal-haired brigand, was leaving the docks at the time! He couldn't have, could he…? Cythandria looked so grim… It just wasn't fair. Somehow, he was involved, if she understood Cythandria's silence, but how could someone with such _nice_ eyes be a killer? They were so warm and pleasant, especially when they were intense. It had to be a mistake; he couldn't… it wasn't right at all.

—

The Iron Throne was all locked up, and it wasn't safe for her to roam the streets, Cythandria informed her as soon as they were back inside. She didn't like to point out that the brigand tried to break _into_ the Iron Throne, tried and obviously failed, but after catching the woman's look, mollified her own sullen expression. Cythandria had already dispatched a message home, explaining what had happened; Daddy wouldn't be pleased when he found out, but Daddy was in Candlekeep, and Cythandria was right: short of the Ducal Palace and the Flaming Fist headquarters, the Iron Throne had the most guards anywhere in the city. Nowhere was safer.

She still pouted.

Cythandria watched coolly, and didn't comment, but she hadn't forgotten how hard she slapped; she didn't _think_ the green eyed woman would strike her again, but it was better not to test her. Without sharpness, Cythandria inquired after her health; she replied how she missed her bard, and Cythandria smiled and beckoned her to sit beside her. She held a hairbrush. Obediently, she obeyed, trying not to pull faces as the other began to pull the brush through her hair.

Cythandria's chambers were decidedly odd, she noted, seeing the stacks of bookshelves peeking through from the library, and the odd tome left beside the divans she entertained from. The bedchamber, at the end of the hall, held a four poster, but she hadn't had the chance to see inside that much. She wondered about sleeping arrangements, but Cythandria had already thought of that. The bed was big enough for four, and Cythandria had brought out several garments from when she was younger. She was surprised that they fitted, and tried not to cringe when the woman insisted she try them on. It really _was_ like having a big sister, she decided, who seemed to think that the lack of a mother had left huge gaps in her education and had taken it upon herself to plug them…

Shrugging out of her dress, she donned a comfy tunic in a _gorgeous_ blue; she hadn't thought Cythandria would have worn men's clothing, but once again, she was proven wrong. In leggings and socks, she curled up on the divan while Cythandria read to her. It was a story about Umberlee and the city, from a hundred years ago. Before she knew it, she had nodded off.

When she came to, there was a shadowy figure standing over her, sword in hand. She opened her mouth, and a _man's_ hand clamped down on it.

—

"You're him!" She gasped as he released the pressure slightly; she had calmed down enough to promise not to scream. The knife helped that; but she was far too interested to be scared. It really was romantic! It was even better than her dreams, which she certainly couldn't tell him about. At least, not yet. Some things really were far too naughty. Her hairs on the back of her neck stood up and a chill swept through her when she heard his voice.

"Where is he?"

It seemed less of a question and more of a demand.

"W-who?" Genuinely surprised, she forgot she was in her nightgown, and laid her hand on his; his grip lessened a little. It pleased her he didn't want to hurt her. "You've such nice eyes…"

He blinked at that, and she flushed; had she really said that aloud? Oh dear…

"Sarevok."

"Oh! Um, he's at Candlekeep–"

"That's impossible." He released her, and she could breathe again, and couldn't. Her heart was fluttering in her throat. As he half turned, she drank him in.

"Oh my, you're – you're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"Oh! How wonderful!" She clasped her hands together; all the heroes in the stories did that. "I knew it couldn't be you! You couldn't have killed him!"

"Killed who?"

"Scar, of course! Are you really that silly, or are you just playing games with me? _Everyone_ thinks it was you!"

His look darkened.

"Oh, don't go – please. I've wanted – wait, a moment?"

He stopped.

"How did you get in here? The windows – oh, the door. Of course, how silly of me. Um. I – I wanted to say thank you."

"For what?" Genuinely puzzled, he halted.

"Well, that night. Um, at the auditorium, well, you… you kept it interesting."

He frowned.

"Oh, that's adorable! You look so sweet when you scowl–"

"Girl–"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to say that aloud! I'm a little sleepy. Um, you're not going to hurt me, are you? I won't call the guards, I swear."

Then he was gone.

She sighed, ran to the window, and when she couldn't find any trace of him, returned to bed and couldn't get back to sleep. It was only the next day when she wondered where Cythandria was…

—

She slept late the next morning. When she woke, she found Cythandria in the sitting room. One glance told her the other woman was livid; before she could tiptoe back and hide in the bed, she was spotted. Looking up with her frosty green stare, Cythandria gestured and reluctantly, she joined her for breakfast. Barefoot, she padded over and sat on the divan beside her, hoping to avoid suspicion. Pouring herself tea, she helped herself to a plate and some cold meats; Cythandria hadn't touched the food at all.

"W-what's wrong?" She asked eventually, after the silence stretched to unbearable awkwardness.

"His diary is missing," Cythandria replied curtly, then looked up, as if she had spoken without meaning to.

"Oh."

Her eyes narrowed, and the girl swallowed.

"He won't be pleased."

"But why would someone…?"

"It's not important. Finish your tea."

"Am… are you sending me home?" She couldn't hide her disappointment.

Cythandria regarded her and after a moment, shook her head slowly, "No. But I have things to do, and you need to eat," Her smile returned and everything was all right again, "you didn't have dinner last night, and you must be hungry. We'll go out this afternoon, to the top of the tower, and I'll show you where Sarevok should be."

Then she realised her error; Sarevok was not at Candlekeep at all; he was in _Cloakwood_. Oh dear…

"You'll be all right by yourself?" Cythandria wanted to know, "There are a lot of books here; I know you like reading."

"How?"

The flaxen-haired woman smiled, and tapped her nose.

"You and your secrets!" She laughed, relieved that she wasn't in trouble.

"Perhaps I'll share some, if you're good," Cythandria leaned over and kissed the top of her head. She really was getting into the whole 'big sister' thing, she noted with a half hearted sigh.


	3. II

II

Several days later, Skie sat on the bed, disappointed. He hadn't returned. She hadn't heard _anything_ about him. It was just so unfair. Cythandria hadn't mentioned him at _all_, and she was scared to ask, if she was honest. Cythandria – who now insisted that she be called 'Cyth' in private – had been very distant, and absorbed in whatever it was she was doing. Apparently there was a murderer loose in the city, and they _still_ hadn't caught him. Duke Eltan had fallen horribly ill, and he was being guarded day and night in the Flaming Fist compound, but the priests had so far been unable to heal him, which was _very_ strange; Daddy was still at Candlekeep with Rieltar, Sarevok's father, and no one was allowed out on the streets at night.

It was all really very boring, but at least she had plenty of books. She had thought about asking Cythandria to get her a kitten, but the furniture here was far too nice for that. She sighed and looked around the now familiar setting. Reds, greens, and dark wood. Marble flooring, red divans and drapes, and carpets. They were isolated here, and the guards left them alone. She wasn't allowed off this floor, as there were other, important guests and emissaries from other merchant cartels staying there. Usually, she would have ignored such restrictions, but something in Cyth's tone warned her not to. Cyth would be very disappointed if she broke curfew, and given how distant she was… she didn't want to be sent home. It was nice having some time to herself, and nice to spend evenings with Cyth. She tentatively asked if they could visit the Undercellar again, and rather than being told 'no', Cyth promised 'soon'. In fact, Cyth planned to take her the day after tomorrow, so that was good!

—

The next night, she awoke to find a hand around her throat. A strong, heavy hand. Its owner growled, and she quaked. She was so scared she didn't hear what he said; he was _huge_. Feebly, she tried to pull off his hand, but it was like trying to move a mountain. She began to see spots and struggled uselessly. She noticed how his eyes seemed to glow, even in the darkness; he shook her before she could pass out, demanding an answer. The rapid pad of feet followed.

"Sarevok!" Cythandria's voice called from the doorway, "Stop that! Let her go!"

He turned, his hand still around her throat, and frowned. Somehow she could see it, the hall's distant lamp lights falling on his face.

She wanted to be excited, wanted it to be _him_, but it wasn't. Unable to help herself, she began to cry.

"Look what you've done," Cyth exclaimed in exasperation, making her way over to the bed. Through the tears, she could barely make out the older woman; why was she in a translucent robe? It glistened, iridescent; she was so pretty…

Sarevok didn't respond, but released her and marched out.

Cyth sighed audibly, pulled her close and murmured comfort, kissed and stroked her hair, ordered her back to sleep and went after her lover.

Through the closed door, she heard every word.

"What do you think you were doing? She's just a girl!"

"What's she doing in _my_ bed?"

"Sleeping, you oaf! She's my guest! Don't you walk away!"

"He was _here_. I can feel it."

She didn't hear anything else, but hugged her pillow close.

A few moments later, the bed seemed to shake, as an explosion or earthquake boomed, "_WHAT DO YOU MEAN '_MISSING'_?_"

—

The next morning, sometime after dawn, Sarevok stomped into the bedchamber. In Iron Throne livery befitting the young man elected Duke, he towered in the doorway, his shaved head just shy of brushing it. She curled deeper into the covers, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. It was silly, of course; his muscled arms seemed wider than her head; they weren't, but she couldn't forget his hand around her neck…

He cleared his throat, and looked at her with unblinking eyes. She buried herself deeper, trying to sink through the mattress and into the ground.

"I… behaved poorly last night. I reacted without thinking. I apologise."

She shook her head, trying hard not to peer over the covers at him. Aware of how absurd it was, she still couldn't stop looking at him.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."

However forced, she believed him and nodded slowly.

"A… wyvern, in Cloakwood… it escaped me. I bear its sting on my side. It left me… testy. Cythandria tells me my home was burgled while I was away."

Slowly, she nodded.

"You are our guest, and will remain here until it is safe. I insist."

"Y-you didn't."

His stare sharpened, curiously.

"…hurt me…"

"You will join us for breakfast. I have an errand to run later; Cythandria will remain here with you. I will return on the morrow."

"Um… all right. Uh… your bed…"

"You may stay there. As our guest. Now be dressed; we dine in ten."

"Um… S-Sarevok?"

He looked at her.

"I – I'm sorry you were robbed."

"They'll be sorrier."

She swallowed, and he smiled.

"You're safe here." He turned and closed the door behind him.

—

Tentatively, she perched beside Cyth. Sarevok sat opposite his lover, taking up half the divan. Cyth's back was straight, almost rigid, and she ate in silence. Today, her dress was high collared, green-over-white, and trimmed with golden lilies. She forwent slippers and donned velvet shoes, her hair tied back and her lobes sparkling with tiny diamonds. It was as if the night before had never happened.

Sarevok grunted as he sipped tea, the porcelain cup impossibly delicate in his hand. She tried not to think about it, and gingerly helped herself to tea and stole a glimpse over its rim. No one made conversation. Awkwardly, she set the cup down and ventured, "It – it's a nice day outside…"

"Heh."

Cythandria didn't answer, but simply passed her a slice of bread and some fruit, exotic dates.

"D-do you think they'll catch him?"

The glare she received was furious, but Sarevok seemed thoughtful, "Yes." He answered after a moment, but said no more. She didn't like the light in his eyes.

After that, she kept quiet.

—

Before he left, Sarevok made a point of kissing Cyth, and patting her on the shoulder, and smiling awkwardly. She tried to keep from cringing, and offered a small smile back. He nodded sharply, kissed his lover again, and marched out the room. After he left, they both seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and then Cyth whirled on her.

"Don't mention that again," she told her shortly.

She nodded hesitantly, then stared, "Is your lip…"

"It's nothing."

"…I'm sorry, I didn't–"

"Be quiet, Skie."

Trying not to stare at the floor, and keep her welling eyes from flowing over, she didn't resist as Cyth sighed, and pulled her close.

"It's not your fault. I should have told him you were here. Shh, don't cry now."

"I – I – didn't – I didn't mean–" She didn't understand why she was shaking.

"He… gets testy. He threw a book over his shoulder; he didn't know I was there. That's all."

She tried to sniffle; Cyth put a handkerchief to her nose.

"Sit down. Shh. It's all right."

She pretended not to hear the note of resignation, or that she shouldn't blame herself. It didn't feel fun here any more…

As if reading her thoughts, Cyth kissed the top of her head, "You'll understand when you're married," she reflected, still holding her close, "Sometimes… compromises must be made, and sacrifices for those you love."

"D-do you love him?" Unable to help herself, she glanced up. Cyth's eyes flashed, but then they softened, "He is a man," she answered simply.

She didn't understand that. Shifting slightly, she leaned against the woman's shoulder and drew her knees to her chin.

"Tomorrow, I'll take you home."

She bit her lip.

Cyth looked at her oddly, "What's wrong?"

"Just… just…"

She waited.

"I…" She buried her face, "I'm sorry."

"You're not to blame."

"Y-you – you're s-so nice and k-kind a-and I–"

"I'm not." The words were quiet, incredibly so.

"But you _are_," she insisted, "You're lovely… you're perfect… you're always perfect… you're beautiful, you're marrying the youngest Duke ever elected…"

She didn't answer.

"…And everyone wants to be you."

"You're so young," Cyth sighed, and laid her cheek on her hair, "You'll be at my wedding, as my maid."

"…Really?" She tried to look up.

Cyth smiled and kissed her softly, "Who else but my sister?"

She felt better after that.


	4. III

III

The news reached them just before they set off for home. Candlekeep had been attacked, and Rieltar and her father had been slain, along with Brunos, Rieltar's partner. Several Athkatlan Knights of the Shield had also fallen. The messenger also said that the bandits her brother had been hunting with the Fist set an ambush, and while he was on the way to visit Candlekeep…

She couldn't believe it. She just stared in horror; she barely felt Cyth leading her to sit down, dimly noting how she dismissed the man with a harsh nod. A cup of wine was pressed into her hands; she didn't taste it as Cyth lifted it to her lips, or notice when she took it away. She couldn't believe they were both gone…

She didn't know how long she sat there, or when it was she suddenly burst into tears, and found Cyth's arms around her. She vaguely recalled her back being stroked, and the woman's warmth, but she didn't know how she ended up in bed, or how she got into her nightgown.

Now she lay staring up at the bed's curtains, unable to sleep. Cyth came in and out to check on her, but she didn't remember what she said. At some point, Cyth insisted that she ate something, but she barely tasted it. She just felt numb. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair_. Why – how… what about the priests' magic? Who would do such a – she didn't believe it.

More tears arrived, and with them she dissolved into oblivious sobbing. Cyth appeared, perching on the bed and cradling her, but she didn't notice. Anger began to build in the depths of her inmost being.

When Sarevok returned, he steered clear of her; she smelt he was close, his musk, his sweat, metal and horse, heard him bathing, but she didn't care. Cyth went to see him and returned after an hour. It bothered her that he had walked in on her in her nightgown when he apologised, some distant part registered, and she felt violated and angry because of it. Then more tears struck, unsummoned, unwelcome, and after a while, she went back to being listless. Nothing seemed to matter any more, time least of all.

It had to be a bad dream, a dream she would wake from…

She turned and buried her face into her pillow; it was sodden by the time Cyth gently pulled it from her and replaced it.

Sarevok announced publicly that she was under his protection, and together, they stood firm in their grief. She cared nothing for public opinion, and did not hear the murmurs of sympathy or outrage. She stood behind him, Cythandria at her side, and as soon as the announcement was decreed, found herself led away. She barely noted the black dress Cyth had put her in that morning, or the kohl around her eyes. None of it seemed real. Back in their room, she sipped more wine; she detected the slight bitterness, but didn't care. It would help her sleep, Cyth promised; she nodded glumly, and let the wine do its work.

She awoke with tears, and sobbed her heart out. Awkwardly, Sarevok patted her shoulder and vowed those responsible would pay; what he was doing in the bedchamber was a question that no longer mattered. Facedown, she didn't acknowledge his words, and after rubbing her back for a few moments, he left silently. Her mind logged how he stepped around her far more than usual; a clear sign her weeping disturbed him more than he cared to admit, and set his and Cyth's teeth on edge, but neither mentioned it. She knew though. She knew. More tears welled.

Privately, she noticed Sarevok had not shed a single tear for Rieltar, only vowed retribution and assembled an army. It took her several days to notice this, but by that time, she had stilled her tears, blunted her grief. She was still prone to random outbursts, but she was more composed now. She smiled gratefully at Cyth, who walked over in her usual ladylike grace and gave her a tight hug and a kiss. She wouldn't have thought it of her, this affection, but she was grateful for it. She owed her far more than she cared to admit.

Then Sarevok disappeared, and for several days, Cyth seemed on edge. She paced and locked herself away, and were it not for her own grief, she would have approached her. As it was, she hesitantly asked what was wrong when Cyth finally re-emerged. The answer was not to worry, and to go and get ready for bed. It left her making a face, but her feet padded towards the bedroom obediently; following Cyth's instructions seemed second nature now, whether she liked it or not. She wasn't a child, and part of her resented the insinuation she was, but the greater part was grateful for it.

When Sarevok returned, his bellow shook the room. Sheathed in black armour, and carrying a sword almost twice her height, she dropped her goblet at the sight of him. His boots shattered the marble tiles, and doors were thrown off their hinges. "Where is she?" He growled, his teeth grit.

"C-Cyth?"

He took an ominous step forwards.

"Ba-bath!" She pointed.

He spun and strode from the chamber. She winced and winced again when she heard the door torn from its hinges.

"He's gone!" Sarevok roared, oblivious to Cyth's bathing; she decided the entire city must hear him. "He's evaded me! And you – _you failed me_."

"M- my lord–"

"Silence! You – you are nothing! Deliver him to me by the time I return, or you forfeit–"

"Master, mercy!"

"Then bring him to me." It wasn't quite a growl; then Sarevok's footsteps echoed down the hallway. Outside, she heard him demand, "Ready the Fist; we ride through the night and strike them with the dawn."

What was going on? Suddenly too scared to cry, she drew her knees to her chin.


	5. IV

IV

It was time to bury her father. She couldn't think of him as 'Daddy' anymore, even if he would always be that way to her. The priests had failed her. The gods were cold, wretched beings; the blasphemy stuck in her throat, her mind screaming at her, but that was how she felt. He had been the richest man in the city, a Duke, and none of that had brought him back. None of it had saved him. She hated them for it, hated them all. She hated the priest and his nasal voice, his sermon about how justice would be done, and some greater plan. She didn't believe it. She didn't believe any of it.

Her governess was present, and tried to express concern that she should be with her family's household, especially at this time, but she didn't listen. Her family was gone. All she had left was her own life… Breaking social protocol and ignoring all eyes, Cyth's hand found hers and squeezed. She looked up gratefully. She still had Cyth.

The priest looked at her, expecting her to say some meaningful words; after his useless drivel, she should spit, but she hadn't the energy or the will to. She didn't care enough. Instead, Cyth stepped forwards, her stare silencing all objection.

She felt someone behind her; she couldn't see anyone. Irritably, she put it from her mind. A piece of paper was stuffed into her hand; it read to leave and wander towards the white tree behind the large tomb. She screwed it up before anyone else could see. Cyth continued her speech on valour, gallantry, and revenge. Sickened, she slipped away…

—

He was waiting for her, in the shadows. Flatly, she met his eyes.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he began simply.

"You did it."

"No, not I."

"Liar." There was no heat in her words, but rising fury made her shake. It was an effort to keep quiet. She wished she had a knife; she saw his, tucked away in his belt, and decided to snatch it. All she need do was distract him. Angrily, she took a step closer. Amazingly, he allowed it.

"I spared you, that night."

His soft words stopped her in her tracks, "What?"

"You. I spared you. She," he jerked his coal-haired head in Cythandria's direction, "was my mark. Had I succeeded, perhaps your father and brother would still be alive."

She gasped.

"I have proof."

"You–"

"Later. Tonight."

"Wait – why…"

"You deserve better."

Then he was gone; magic. She couldn't believe it. She wanted to scream. What in the hells was happening?

—

"The whole city's looking for you. Why shouldn't I turn you in? One scream–"

"You won't."

His confidence was infuriating, not that she cared. It was night; Cyth was in her bath, performing her nightly ritual. She covered herself in balms and oils, rubbing creams and soaps into her skin. The perfumed waters always left the same fragrance; distilled floral essences, other fruits and plants. She spent a fortune on it. None of it mattered.

Now he stood before her, clad in simple mottled black and grey. His hood drawn back, he appeared as any other young man; perhaps a merchant's son. Indiscriminate, save for his eyes. She hated his stare, so full of compassion.

"Why are you here?"

"I lost my father as you lost yours."

"Why should I care?"

"A year and a half ago. Flamerule. She was responsible, just as she was responsible for your loss. You've heard it said spying is a woman's game? She has eyes and ears everywhere. She came to Candlekeep–"

"Candlekeep?" Startled, she interrupted sharply, "You–" An image of brown eyes, black hair, a grinning chubby face full of baby-fat on a squat body that would one day become lean, with chiselled, strong features…

"Yes," he allowed simply.

"But…"

He smiled slightly, "You don't remember, do you? We were eight, maybe younger. Outside the stables; you hated dancing. It was sunny, then the rain fell on us suddenly. Your father and brother…"

"You stole my book."

"I was reading it first."

She giggled in spite of herself, "I called you…"

"Yes." He sobered, "My father…"

She shook her head, "That was years ago. It doesn't matter."

"It mattered."

He looked past her, towards the door. "She isn't your friend, Skie."

"She's all I have…"

He smiled sadly at her, "Is she?"

She refused to answer.

"He will destroy us all. He marches on Nashkel, then Athkatla. She is behind it. Search her rooms; there is my proof. You will find a tome, one of prophecy. They speak of him… of us. Get away from here Skie, before the terror consumes you. The Sword Coast will run red with blood, and cities will burn. Baldur's Gate means nothing to him, to either of them."

"Wait–"

"Farewell."

"No, come back…" Her words died in her throat. Defeated, she sank back onto the bed. This wasn't fair. _He_ wasn't fair.


	6. V

V

"You… you lied to me…" She stared at the green-clad woman, and her perfect creamy skin, her gorgeous golden hair and puzzled expression. The book dropped from her hands.

"What are you babbling about?" Cyth snapped, towelling dry her hair. Then her eyes sharpened, "Where did you get that?"

"Your… you're…"

Cythandria took a step forwards, "I will – Skie, come here." Lowering her hand, she smiled, taking the edge from her tone, "I won't hurt you; we're sisters."

"You… you're not my–"

"You think that I took you under my wing for your own sake? Look at me, my nose, my jaw. Stop looking at my hair, my eyes. Who was your mother, Skie? Brilla Silvershield. How old was she when she died? How old was she when she married your father?"

She hesitated.

"You are my sister, little duchess; we share a mother."

"You – you're lying…"

"Am I? Why would I do that? Think about it; how many nobles have bastards? How many hide them away? You think I," She laughed unkindly. "Have you seen yourself in a mirror? They whisper on the streets that I seduced you, that you share my Sarevok; do you know why that is? Were I to colour my hair brown, they would see _you_."

"No…"

"Yes." Cythandria stepped closer.

She stepped back.

"Come to me, and look. I promise I won't hurt you." Her hands slipped under her arms, holding her above the elbow. She drew her near, pressing her to her breast. "You're mine, little sister. I won't lose you, not to anyone. Sarevok would've killed you that night…"

"…But why…"

"For us, my sister."

"My father…"

"Betrayed you. Betrayed our mother. Betrayed this city. I couldn't let him hurt you any longer."

"You had him killed…"

"No, child. He did that to himself."

"Sarevok…"

"Is a god, yes. He will reward us greatly, those who are faithful. You and I will rise above all others, and together, we shall sit at his feet, his handmaidens. We shall head a new order, and together, we can change the realms. That's what you want, isn't it Skie? To make a difference, to do something meaningful? We can do that together, you and I." She kissed her.

"No…"

"Yes, sister. You don't see it now, but you will. This is for you, for us both."

Her throat constricted. "My brother…"

"Went against our lord and paid the price for it. He should have bowed when he had the chance." Cythandria's eyes shone in worship. "All will learn. No one can stop him."

_He_ can, she thought.

—

"I – I need to sit down."

"Yes," Cythandria agreed, looking at her oddly, "And you need to bathe."

She hesitated, then stared, "You – you're…"

"Yes." She smiled, "He can never reject me now. That whore Tamoko has failed."

"Tamoko?"

"You are so naïve, dear Skie. Do you really think he leaves just to run off and hit things with his sword? Well, he does, but not the sword you think."

"…That's–"

"He's a god, sister, and gods have vast appetites. I took him from her; showed him how he needed a woman."

"But if he learns…"

"He'll thank me for it."

"No – he'll kill you. This… the book…"

"The bastards of godchildren are power, weapons to be forged and used. I can bind it to him."

"You're talking about your own child–"

"Yes, little sister. That is all we are; tools to be used and discarded when worthless. If we show him we are of use, he will let us live. You need to understand that," Another smile, sadder this time, "when my belly is swollen, if he has not yet ascended, it will be your thighs that part for him."

"No!"

"You won't have a choice; better you accept it now. I will make you bear his child; I will keep you safe."

"You're mad–!"

Her eyes sharpened, snapping back to reality, "No sister," she answered coldly, "It is you who does not see. You remember your mother with dark hair, from the miniatures; she was flaxen-blonde, like me. She died in childbirth to you. I didn't understand until later. Now it is your turn to understand. Sarevok is a god; like his father, he will spawn a score of progeny, and they will rise up to fire the realms, to serve him. That is his destiny; to rule the heavens and the hells. Can you not see it? Do you not feel his power?"

"I…"

"You are still so young. You will feel better when you've rested; do not fret, little sister. I will be there. When he takes you for his own, you will be glad. It hurts a little, but it soon fades; you will enjoy it. The fire in a god's blood is like no other; once you've tasted it, no other lover will ever be enough for you. You will cry out for his touch, his name burnt upon your lips. He hungers, and it will be you he hungers for; after his touch not even an incubus will satisfy you."

She took a step backwards.

"No, you must bathe. I will prepare you, teach you how to prepare yourself. You must learn."

She shook her head slowly.

"Do not argue with me! Take off your gown! Do not test me, sister. I will _make_ you obey."

She swallowed.

—

"The battle is won!" Sarevok thundered, "Amn is in flight!" Laughing, he scoped Cythandria in his arms and spun her around, blood still splattered over his armour. Kissing her deeply, he set her down breathless. Then his eyes locked onto her.

She trembled.

"You, little duchess, you will stand beside me as we proclaim the news; our fathers have been avenged. The assassins fled to Nashkel, and all there were put to the torch. After this, we cross the Cloud Peaks and march on Amn." Laughter bellowed.

Cyth leaned close and murmured, "With this victory, it is time to declare yourself lord. Raise up the old banners, call the faithful to you."

Eyes widening, she felt her heart leap into her throat; this couldn't be happening. Cythandria was mad, possessed by wild fancy; this wasn't real… it was a dream, a horrible, horrible dream…

"…Demand all worship you; purge those who refuse. Any who refuse. You demand our oaths, our fealty."

"Yes, I am he, the new Lord of Murder."

"Then let us bow to you."

He threw back his head and roared.

"Or the city burns." Cythandria smiled adoringly at him.

She turned and ran.


	7. VI

VI

Cythandria's voice called after her, "Skie, where are you? Come out, little sister; you can't hide…" Moments before, she had exclaimed, "Go, claim your prize! Let all tremble at your name!"

In full armour and still laughing, Sarevok marched through the Iron Throne.

She had found the safest, most obvious, and thereby, least likely place: under the madman's own bed. Covering her head with her arms, she curled into a ball, praying to the cruel, cruel gods who allowed this to hide her from his wrath and lust. The bedcovers draped to the floor; perhaps it would be enough… what had happened… why… none of it made any sense… they couldn't defeat Amn; Eddard was always on about how strong the Amnish forces were and how weak their own were… but if he was a god… but the Time of Troubles were over; Ao had decreed… this wasn't fair!

Closing her eyes, she tried to make it go away. In the stories, the gallant knight would ride in; the clever thief would trick his foes; somehow, the righteous would win. She never had much use of the righteous, especially not those stuck up paladins, but even _they_ were better than this…

All she wanted to do was cry and wake from this nightmare. It had to be Black Lotus… someone had drugged her… why was everything going wrong?

—

"Ahh, there you are! Found you! You naughty little Skie, running away like that! You should be on the bed, not under it; why are you still clothed?"

"Get away from me you crazy–"

"Now you're just being naughty." Chidingly, Cythandria shook her head, "I'm going to have to punish you if you keep being obstinate."

"Leave me alone!"

"That's no way to speak to your big sister. Now come out at once."

"No!"

"If you're not out by the time I reach three–"

"Leave her alone."

"Oh, if it isn't _you_ – Sarevok will be most pleased. You took the bait, little boy. You never should have come here."

"I should have killed you."

"But you couldn't, could you? You thought I was _her_. Oh, but your lips were delicious; how did you feel when you realised your mistake, that I wasn't your _precious_ Skie?"

"Shut up."

"She's right here; did you know he wants you? I pretended to be you, and he fell for it. He's not as good as Sarevok–"

"I said 'shut up'. Where is he?"

"You think I'd betray my master? Oh no, little godling; he knows you're here. He's coming for you. Down and down and down you go. He'll be in the city under the streets, in the old temple. You know the one. Seek him there, if you can get through the maze."

"You're lying."

"Am I, godling? Tell him, Skie; I don't lie, not between family. Sarevok and I are all but married; that makes you my brother, just as Skie here's my sister. We're all one big family, and family have no secrets from each other, do they, my little duchess?"

"I should kill you–"

"But you won't. You love her too much. You won't deny her her sister."

"Help me – get rid of her!"

"Now that's not very nice," Her fingers twisted, the air shimmering. "You be quiet."

She found her mouth couldn't work.

"Leave her alone!"

"I would never hurt her, but you? You belong to my lord. Go to him, or I'll bind you and take you there. Show me some courtesy, brother, or I'll lay you across the alter myself."

"The diary…"

"Oh well done. You finally figured out it was a lure? You're quicker than Sarevok; he never had the mind for such simplicities, things so easily overlooked. I've known where you are from the moment you took it."

"Why–"

"You'll give Tamoko my regards when you see her, won't you? She thought she could turn you, convince you to go against my lord; she was a fool, and she'll die a fool. She's waiting for you, outside the temple, waiting for death. Go to him, little godling, and finish this, as brothers should."

"I should end you now–"

"Uh-uh; I'm with child. Is it yours, or his, I wonder? Will you risk murdering your own son? Your own daughter? You're not your father; isn't that what you believe? Will you murder your brother's child? Come now, you're not him; you're not so wicked."

"I'll be back for you–"

"If you aren't, he will be. If you win, I'm yours… and so is Skie. If he does, we're his. Those are the stakes, godling; win or die. His child, or yours."

Inside her skull, she was screaming. Why wasn't he fighting? Why wasn't he killing her? How could he leave? Was he afraid? What she said couldn't be true… he hadn't… not with her… it wasn't true, it wasn't… he couldn't have mistaken Cythandria for her… magic? No… she was lying…

"Come out, little Skie. You'll want to watch this, won't you? I won't be cross; I won't even punish you. It's time you saw I deliver on my promises."

—

"Master, he is on his way. He journeys to your sire's temple."

"You fool. You dare send him there?"

"It is a sacred site, a place of your rebirth–"

"Hmn. It is fitting."

"I await your victory."

"How strange is it that he spared you. What did you tell him?"

"That I'm will child."

"WHAT!"

"I will perform the ancient rites and sacrifice it, to strengthen you, my lord."

"You think I do not know your intent? You will take the child and turn it against me; your lying tongue has breathed its last!"

"What? No master! I serve only you – no!"

She couldn't watch the scrying dish any further. Sickened she turned away, and ran as fast as she could, desperate for a carriage. She had to get out of this madhouse.

—

One month later, he found her.


	8. VII

VII

"I never slept with her."

She swallowed, not quite able to believe it, "But she said…"

"What she thought she saw. She isn't the only one who knows how to use the Art."

She sighed in relief, then stared up at him, "You let me believe…"

"I let her believe," he corrected gently, "The only way it ends was with Sarevok. I had to let her give me to him. Tamoko promised it was the only way…"

"You… believed her?"

"I had no choice. She understood what was at stake, made me promise to bring him to his senses, restore his humanity. I tried… I really did try."

"You killed her…"

"No. She killed him. It cost her everything, but at the end, she understood. I… I couldn't do it, Skie. I thought I could, but I couldn't. After everything he did, after all he'd become… I… couldn't."

"Why?" she asked quietly, not quite able to look at him, unable to keep her eyes from his.

"I saw… myself, what I might've become. And… Cythandria was right… we are – were – brothers. I never knew him, but we shared a father. That… was enough."

She studied the garden floor, "You… you're not what I thought."

"You mean, I've not taken my book back?"

Unable to help herself, she smiled, then looked down, "Is it over?"

"No, but my part in this is done."

"What do you mean?"

For a moment, he was quiet. The breeze fluttered through the trees, tickling the leaves as it went. Clouds threatened rain, and the first few drops fell, sparkling in the sunshine. The sky to the east was green, and golden to the south. A storm was coming. When he spoke, it was without hesitation, just soft conviction. His brown eyes never left hers.

"History will record me as the last of the Bhaalspawn, a history we'll write together. I have no intention of claiming my father's throne; I will not play this insane game any longer. While they march upon each other, I will go into hiding. Come with me, Skie. There are other realms, other planes. During my journeys I found a scroll; it will take us to Sigil. From there, we can travel to Mount Celestia, or any of the other planes. We can leave Toril behind, leave all this behind. We can be free, together. Come with me."

"Really? You mean it?"

"Really." He smiled shyly, then leaned in and kissed her. "And, I know you won't believe it, but I had a dream last night in which a Solar visited me…"

"Was she beautiful?"

"Yes, but you're cute; she wasn't."

She flushed crimson.

"Also, her voice was annoying. She wouldn't stop mothering me. Besides, she lacks this dimple on her chin that's just ador–"

She wailed for him to stop; with a grin, he did. She made a mental note to pay him back; he was far, far too amused. Could it really be true? After all these years… that he'd never stopped thinking about her? Her a duke's daughter, and him, the son of a dead god? Was he really asking what she thought he was…?

"Apparently, I have a 'pocket plane'… shall we visit it?"

"Does it have books?"

"More than you can imagine. It even has its own butler, milady."

"Can he sing?"

"Probably not, but I can. I was a chanter, remember? Maybe you don't…"

"What are you waiting for?"

"This." He drew her to him, "I love you, Skie Silvershield. Now, and always."

She smiled; maybe the gods weren't heartless after all.


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

In the pocket plane, the Solar waited patiently. She had been waiting for longer than the newer gods' lifespan. It would not be long now. The prophecy was about to come to fulfilment.

The Trials awaited, and deep in the hells, the spirit of Cythandria screamed, writing in agony under the hands of the incubus she once summoned. The Solar looked on without interest, until the pocket plane, alive in itself, summoned her and the life within.

"_Why not?"_ The Solar thought, it was a place of testing. Every child deserved a chance.

Nearby, Cespenar dusted, chattering inanely to himself.

Yes, it was definitely a place of testing.


End file.
